I was out riding a barren road south of Austin, Texas, when I got the text from editor-at-large Bill Strickland: Lance wants us to stop by. Just 90 minutes later, I was touring Livestrong HQ with the only man to win seven Tours de France. It was two weeks before this issue shipped to the printer, and we were testing bikes for our Editors' Choice awards and cruising the North American Handmade Bicycle Show. Through some miracle of Twitter, Armstrong invited us for a visit.

So on the 50-cent tour of what must be a $5 million-dollar masterpiece, we learned about the cistern installed under the refurbished warehouse to conserve rainwater, about the way nearly every slab of wood and concrete torn off the old structure was put to use, about the computers that calculate sunlight streaming through the north-facing clerestory windows every 15 minutes to recalibrate the lighting. Given how the U.S. Postal and RadioShack teams operated, it shouldn't have surprised me, but I'd never been in a building defined by so many important little details.

Armstrong wore camouflage cargo shorts and flip-flops, and his handshake was not the death grip I'd imagined it'd be. But even when he seems at ease, discussing his art collection and joking about the Michelob Ultra stashed near the loading dock, he has a way of staring through your skull when he looks at you. He knew we were working on a story about his retirement, his legal issues and the future of his foundation. Everyone present knew it was neither the time nor the place to discuss such matters.

It was not an easy environment in which to take the measure of a man. So many people have their minds made up about Armstrong—either they're convinced he's a cheater and serial liar or they're sure he's the world's greatest cyclist and cancer-fighting superhero. They don't seem to acknowledge the possibility that he is both.

"Endgame," captures that kind of nuance. We're not out to leak revelations about the ongoing investigation; someone else will win a Pulitzer for that. Our goal: put Armstrong and his legacy into perspective. No one is better suited for that job than Strickland, who has followed Armstrong for two decades and written a book about his last comeback. Strickland has also taken heat for refusing to say he's convinced that Lance doped—that is, until now. You'll want to read his essay, then dive into Joe Lindsay's primer on the charges Armstrong might face and Nina Burleigh's analysis of the impact on the cancer community. It's complex stuff.

I've had no luck reconciling my feelings on the subject, and sharing an hour with Armstrong changed little. I've followed pro cycling for 30 years—my first memory of the sport is watching highlights on a tiny Trinitron as Joop Zoetemelk cruised to victory in the 1980 Tour—and there's no doubt the Texan is the most transcendent champion I've ever seen. I'll never forget his rides up Hautacam, Luz Ardiden, and Alpe d'Huez. I know he presided over the dirtiest era in a sport with a spotty history, and I no longer harbor faith or hope that he did it clean.

Around 2:30, Armstrong said he had to go pick up his kids, and we shook hands. Light was streaming through those clerestory windows onto tiny plaques that honor people fighting not to die from cancer. I didn't feel much like a journalist. The world of sports is overflowing with athletes who have gained fame and fortune by crossing the line between right and wrong—but how many of them did something meaningful with that fame and fortune? How many gave hope to the dying?

When we finished our tour, without ever talking about the heart of the matter, we staggered back out into the sunshine. I didn't know what to do. If I'd been back home, I would have hugged my boys. But I was on the road, so I did what came naturally: I went for a ride.